Say Hello
by ItCouldBeSweet
Summary: Castiel chronicles his relationship so far with Dean, and a rather unsettling dream. Grace kink and first person POV (I regret nothing). Installment 7 of Fragments.


Would you ridicule me if I told you that right now the rain horizontally streaking across the window reminded me of you? Well, yes, you probably would considering Sam is seated next to you and, despite him being intimately knowledgeable of our relationship's progression, you still have to react in a very perfunctory manner. The rain, cold and gray, damp, inconvenient, miserable, reminds you of me? is what you would say, but it would not be what you meant. In your head the same images that manifest in my mind would flash in yours: water dripping out of your hair and into your eyes, lightning flashing in the sky, laughter as you asked about my masturbation habits (which you still incessantly harass me about) and the frightened rage of a capture animal when confronted with the thought of losing someone you... cared for.

We both recall that, distressing but for different reasons, and can reflect more more fondly on it. Your fears and desires seeing light after being stored away for so long, your frankness has left you feeling embarrassed in hindsight. But it had to be done: you needed to listen to yourself more than I.

That's not to say the drama that unfolded in your car was all that pleasurable for me. I risked our friendship speaking out to you as I did. I'm no prophet, but something within me indicated that would not happen. Maybe it was my own conscious, handing me a compendium of photos and saying "Look at this photograph, Castiel. This child gazes at you like he can see what you truly are, and the way you look at him here. He shares himself with you, speaking in a way he saves only for his brother; do you remember this moment?"

Being the cause of his nightmares. Mourning for Purgatory. Mourning for my doomed righteousness. You always cared. More than you should have for a friend, more that your imprinted philosophy of distance and social numbness would allow. If I did not say the correct words at the correct time, I would have risked losing you. Your fortress is well guarded against intruders.

The kiss, which I to this day did not expect to happen, was not initiated by myself, but it by no means meant we were out of the woods, so to speak.

We're heading home to the bunker after lunch, which came after a false lead on Crowley. I feel as if I'm a component in a plan of his devising to which I'm absolutely oblivious to. I'm... far more nervous than I let on, Dean. This is something both familiar to us, being used. And being surveyed... Are they watching to be positive I'm doing things as I should? Does Crowley know something I do not? What I have been doing with you and your brother as of late has been very mundane, so I cannot see how I could be leading him to something. Much like your waking terrors, my unconscious traveling has declined. As far as I know; you cannot watch over me every second of the day.

Could that have something to do with it? My disappearances do not involve Crowley or those who work under him, but he may know where I go and what I do, if I do anything at all. If that is the case... I do not want to think about it. The influence he could be having on me while I'm in such a helpless state is dire. Just my being close to the two of you could be a risk. But nothing has been proven, no evidence to be inspected.

I thought the same thing that night in the woods. I left you when you needed me most. You pleaded for me to stay, Dean, and I fled. With so many unknown variables I felt I had no choice but to pursue them on my own as soon as possible. They wanted _you_. I must protect _you_. I was wrong, and I had no way of knowing.

I sigh to myself. You don't need to know what is troubling me. Not now.

You were not the only one suffering from the rippling effect Jillian and Roland caused. Do you know why I retreated? It's for the same reason you could not regulate your anger. Our anxieties produced themselves in different ways, but the cause was quite the same. Your walls were being breached and resorted to paroxysms. You fought back the influx of revived emotion with your entire being because that is what you wanted. A desire to fight back your very own desire.

Shame. That's the reason. What came naturally for me as what did for you was to disappear. Instead of "I don't deserve joy", I thought "I don't deserve his devotion." No matter how I may carry myself or confident and assured I may sound, I am far from it. All I see in the reflection of your eyes is sin, betrayal, contempt; someone who has lied to you, to his only friends. Trust is a fragile thing no matter what species you are, mortal or immortal. Once broken, rarely can it be repaired. You tell me the past is in the past and that time heals wounds. I am gracious for that lie, one you yourself do not believe.

That's what people do to their loved ones, isn't it? Lie to them. The lies mean well, of course, to encourage or ease the truth of reality. That is something I learned to do here on Earth. You know firsthand the forward and brutal honesty of my kind; we have little regard for discretion and even less for humans. Deceit is a part of who you are. It has both kept you alive and gotten you killed. It safeguarded you against your past to a point of disassociation. Take that away and you're confronted with truth, which frightens you more than any foe you've ever faced.

I lie to you, Dean, because I meant it when I said "Despite my wants, what I wanted most of all was your happiness." My not coming clean with my consternation because the last thing you need is another burden. I look to you now, only able to see the side of your face from this angle, and it only reaffirms my resolve. You have spent your entire life protecting others with little or no thanks. Someone needs to protect you for a change. To save you. I wonder if that I am deserving of that honor but even so, it is something I will do. To physically shield you from whatever may want to kill you, and from your mind, which is so much harder to evade.

They're always there, angels' wings; why would they retreat within ourselves when they exist in the same plane as air. In tight quarters they pass through walls, and relatively speaking, almost every enclosure is small compared to their wingspan – even folded against our body. Our grace is shrunken down to scale, so to speak, when we take on a vessel. I don't think you or any human for that matter could comprehend how big they truly are. With a penchant for exaggeration, you'd probably say they stretch forever. Hmm. I wish such an idea as forever existed.

Even though you could never feel them brush against your skin or see them in such close proximity to you, I never gathered the courage to... to do that. It was never about personal space as you so frequently reminded me when I conveniently forgot such a thing was uncomfortable. I almost laugh recalling how direct I was while you remained so nearsighted; never once did you noticed I only did that with you. To be fair, that was the action of one who also did not know how he felt at the time. It was not love, at least then it wasn't. You were not the only one to change the perception of his upbringing, Dean.

But even when I became aware of myself, reevaluating what I thought of as love until that point, I could never protect you with my wings. If a bullet passed through the air where my wing should be it would of course hit you. Protection like... a child using a nightlight or a toy to help them sleep; an old blanket to calm you; an umbrella for when it rains; or in your case, a gun under your pillow. To see you in pain or stressed or conflicted and not be able to do anything about it because you'd push me, you would push me so damn roughly away I would only make your problems worse.

A kiss was all you needed to tell me I could offer you that comfort.

I never expected you to sense them.

"Awfully quite for a guy who's being studied like a lab rat," you say to me from the driver's seat.

"With so many theories and no evidence, there's nothing I can add other than more theories. What's the point in it?"

"I don't know. Like are you the least bit worried about it?" Sam says it like it should be obvious to me. I am, of course, but I see no reason to trouble you two with my complaints.

"Perhaps less than I should be." You make a noise, one I can't find meaning in, and mutter "And you thought _I_ was bad," to which your brother quickly responds with "Because you have such a negative influence on him!"

To be fair, we both share the blame. The alterations we cause in each other have been happening for years now. You may blame experience, or the effects of humanity for me, but we both know that there is more to it. Our understanding goes much further than what appears on the surface.

I took initiative last night because the timing felt right. You have been so receptive to me lately, certainly more compassionate than I thought you would be so soon after the visions that plagued you, that I could not help but do so. Wanted to... I wanted to. I had wanted to for some time, but I felt as if I had permission now, or at least more so than normal. With only a pair of shorts to cover you and a shirt in hand, we were both getting dressed for bed. Personally, I would rather sleep without garments as the purpose is to be comfortable. Don't you find clothing too restrictive? Yes, you may tell me that one must always be prepared for intrusions and to flee at a moment's notice – "Demon's aren't gonna wait for you to find a pair of Dockers to throw on." But I see what you wear: pants of varying thickness, shirts that only end up under your arms when you wake up. Sweatshirts. Oppressively bulky or itchy. Yet you say that's how you want it.

You look satisfactory when naked so I don't see the issue if we were ever in such a predicament. Just another irrational human social norm.

Before you hand a chance to lift the shirt over your head, I placed my hands on your shoulders, pushing you softly back until you had no choice but to sit on the bed. The look on your face obviously was one of bafflement, but I one the other hand was feeling pretty pleased with myself; the hardest part was over. Now my sole focus was having you feel the same way.

You're were about to say something as I leaned in close to you, lips hovering above yours and effectively silencing you, and we stayed that way for some seconds, looking. The flutter of your eyes as you broke contact with mine but only briefly, the freckles across the bridge of your nose after exposure to the summer sun, licking your lips because they're dry but really you needed something to do with your mouth. You knew then what I was suggesting and did not protest to it. I made contact, but you connected us, wasting no time and... I don't think you'll know just how greatly I enjoy that, Dean. Something that seems so vile when discussed – until you do it. The mouth, a humid incubator for germs, being the source of both comfort and pleasure.

The moment was supposed to be about you yet I moaned into you anyway. I tried not to. It's difficult when one is so proficient with his tongue. A thought causing me to squirm restlessly in my seat. How it licks at my lips, my neck, my chest and further, further down. It never fails to amaze how quickly you saw to my own enjoyment, so much so that you never let me return the favor. Even in coitus you're selfless in that way: others before yourself. But what if the thing that I wanted most, something that would make me harder than those ambrosial lips around me or murmuring my name, my condition, pleading to hear my voice say your own, was to reenact everything on you?

The hand in my hair urged me to fall back with you onto the bed, though I resisted, taking your hand in mine and kissing the knuckles. The reaction, while predictable, was the one I wanted. Wide eyed, abashed, never panicky – just adjusting to such tender displays. It's in your nature to push so learning to pull will take time. I have more than enough.

My lips are back on yours and I momentarily stroke you through your shorts (boxers... briefs... boxer-briefs... each one unnecessary no matter the name, why can't you forgo underwear all together?) to gauge where you were. More contact was needed for you to become fully engorged but my patience was being entrenched by... by my need to _have_ you. My hand drags to cup your inner thigh hoping you will spread your legs further apart so I could place myself between them. My intentions become clear to you then and trepidation passes over your face. Something tells me you think I want to penetrate you. Even if that was the case, I would never simply demand it of you.

"Do you trust me, Dean?"

I only meant that for that very moment, hoping beyond hope that you would believe I would not put you in a place you did not ask to be in. But now that a day has passed and I have the time to review, I was being general on purpose. Those four words stood for everything, not just our intimate relationship but as friends and companions. I've fucked up, I've fucked up too many times for amnesty granted by anybody. Do you trust me to never hurt you again, to lie or inflict physical or psychological pain?

You said you did then, and you meant it. Or wanted to mean it. Because I do lie, everyday in fact, just by being with you. I promised I'd never leave, but I might one day, and I fear that is the one lie you will never forgive me for.

After a brief moment of hesitation you moved your legs aside, and I dropped in between them, still fondling you and being encouraged by agreeable little huffs from above. Little by little you became accustomed to it, our roles being reversed (though I still don't see it as such a dramatic shift), as my senses processed what was before me. All except taste which was... a shame, and always will be.

I pulled you out above the waistband rather than strip you of your obstructive clothing. Warm and soft in my palm, and almost where you needed to be. The pad of my thumb played against you slit and surprisingly your legs twitched, rubbing against my own. Hardly a nudge, but showed that I was in fact not screwing anything up yet and your increasing comfort level. Believe me Dean, in my head, what I wanted from you -to do to you- was far more debauched; you'd banish me to purgatory at this point in our relationship. Maybe later you will let me do those things. I hope so. I think you'd like it.

The teasing was sufficient, firm strokes and gentle rubs against the head, but not what I wanted. I wanted you in me, the way I was for you several times before. Feeling your flesh on my tongue, hot and full because I made you that way, taking you down as far as I could. Because what you do for me is amazing, and I hoped that I could produce that same overwhelming sensation in you.

I can't explain why I smiled up at you then; your lazy and questioning smile I could, though. _Some weird goofy Cas thing _I'm sure you thought. It probably was.

Gripping the base loosely, I dragged my tongue slowly, so slowly I didn't even know it was possible for me to move at such a crawling pace, from the midpoint of your length up. The change of a dry hand to a slippery tongue was absolutely clear as the huffs turned into a moan. The smoothness, the bump of a vein, the flare of your head, committed to memory. Another part of you for me alone. I get to the head and plunged the tip of my tongue inside. Out of the corner of my eye I saw you grip the closest thing to you, which was the shirt you don't need. You liked it; I was doing okay.

My lips surrounded you and only took little in, not to tease really, but the progress felt natural. With lips and tongue I manipulated you for a little while before going all the way down – and tore myself away when you barked out. Of course I though I had hurt you: I could have done more than simply graze my teeth against you, or something could have... _bent_. I panicked and looked up to you, expecting to see the red tint of pain (or the repressed desire to smack me) on your face. What I saw was -much to my perplexity and later relief- you covering your mouth with a fist, the corners of it and your eyes both turned up as they do when you're amused. You seemed to be trying to contain a laugh.

"Dean, I..." I didn't know how to complete the sentence.

"When'd you learn how to, uh, do that?" A giggle almost came out, which you covered with clearing your throat before it had the chance.

"Do what?"

"You know what you did."

I did not. Something in my face must have reflected that sentiment because you made that face, the one you make when you're not sure if I'm pretending to be ignorant or if, before some divine act, defying all laws of nature, time and physics, I really am.

"You..." You were at a loss for words, too. You hand ran through my hair, but I didn't lean into it like I normally do. "You are a man of many secret talents." I wanted to protest this claim and was cut off before I could. "As much as I want you to continue to keep on keepin' on with what you were doing just now, if I want this to last longer than it takes to nuke a burger at McDonald's, you're gonna have to take it easy on _that_."

"So I am doing this incorrectly."

"Fuck no!" You really did sound insulted then. "It's correct." A mischievous grin slithered across your lips. "It's very correct. The thing about deep throating is that it's too good. Keep up at it, the guy's praising God in a couple seconds and you don't get your money's worth."

"I don't understand, Dean. Achieving climax is the reason for sex, so what's the purpose of prolonging the inevitable?"

"Hmm. Well, think of it this way. When we watch movies – you liked some of them, right?"

"I suppose." Honestly, I enjoyed your commentary more than the movies. You seem to have a reply for every line, and for the inaccuracies of killing methods of creatures.

"A movie is about the experience. You walk in only to see the end of the movie, you missed out on a whole lot of stuff: explosions, people dying, probably a nipple or two. So if you're going to town on me, bringing out the heavy artillery like you did, I'm gonna miss out on two-thirds of the flick; show's over before I know it."

I still didn't understand: I seem to have a skill, something you like, and you didn't want me to use it? All I wanted to do was suck your cock and of course there's some trite complication.

You saw the impatience in my eyes, my hands knotted into fists on my lap because they had to do something while I resisted the urge to continue as I was before. I do this often... and I'm sure you think it's childish, but you take it with stride. My mind is the antithesis of yours, and whether we admit it or not, it's one of the things that drew us to each other.

Fingers touched my chin and you leaned down, making sure I met you, and placed a brief but reassuring kiss on my lips. "Just meet me halfway. Do what I do."

"What you have no choice but to do," I reminded you.

"Not all people were born to suck cock, Cas." You winked and sat back once again.

Your brother is correct: you are a jerk.

I should have left you to finish yourself off, but I was the one who initiated this restive demonstration. And it is my fault for giving you the reaction you hoped to squeeze from me, not just then but _every time_ you do it.

Hand placed on your thighs for better leverage and balance, I resumed my ministrations only now with less fervor, taking you only halfway. You seemed to enjoy it, even if the quality was bifurcated. And I did try to do as you did – as you became more confident with every experience. "Work with what you're good at," as you put it. Your skill is something only achieved in the vacuum of space. While you cannot take me all the way down, you make up for it with an enthusiasm that intends to drain the grace from my body. So I tried to replicate that, your penis only passing my lips until it nudge my throat, hollowing out my cheeks and lavishing against you before pulling up.

You against my tongue... Yes. I think I like that part best. It seems to me far more intimate than just suction and lips. Every bit of my self-control was put into not taking you all the way down; I wanted nothing more than to be full of you. But I did the best I could, which, from the noises above me, seemed to be just fine.

Knowing that, the moans and curse words acting as incentive, the heady scent of your arousal, was a shocking trigger to my own. I certainly wasn't intended on becoming so as that night was about you, but much like when you perform fellatio on me, I could not help but become emotionally involved. And much like myself, you could not complete any sentences you began. "Cas, that's..." or "So..." was coherent as you got.

My body begged to be touched, pleas that I tried to ignore. I set my hands in more rigidly on your thighs so they wouldn't wander. Touch, rub against something, just for a little relief; my otherwise ascetic life obliterated by the flesh and bone before me. Even the sounds I myself uncontrollably made added to the fire – groans that sounded more like whines as my erection continued to ache, slurps because I did not want to make a mess on you and pops when my lips lost contact. I reminded myself of the men and women we watch in those internet videos. It was unintentionally raunchy and... thrilling.

Your breathing progressively became more erratic, which was my proof that I did not screw up too badly. Until you nudged me off of you, something I was about to protest with guilt suddenly reemerging along with compunction, until you _commanded _me, mind cloudy with arousal: "Up."

I nearly had "Why?" out before you stood up, clasping your hand on my bicep to raise me along with you. I had no time to register your actions or the reasoning behind them before your lips returned to mine, a hand in my hair making sure that I did not stray. Not that I had any intention to. My senses screamed out to me when the contact I desired was made, both a relief and a taunt. You were nearly finished as far as I could tell; I didn't understand why you would want to end it. I... wasn't sure what to do with my hands -should I continue or touch you elsewhere or myself?- so they hung in mid-air, torn between destinations. Noticing this, you swollen wet lips said against my own, "Dork," and pulled me atop of you on the bed.

What happened next startled you, a short-lived burst of anxiety I felt more than saw. Well, my eyes were closed so I obviously was not seeing much. I was too, but after the fact, when my mind was clear enough and the energy in my body returned to stasis. Because I couldn't explain it, I still can't, and which has been an unspoken enigma between us since. You want to, though: you've been wiggling your eyebrows at me since our morning began.

You sat with your back against the headboard, the pillows you pushed aside with little regard almost sweeping down the items on your nightstand, and us -finally- shed of what little remained. After being loosened for several minutes on your lap (as much as you wanted to penetrate me then, you're beginning to relish feeling inside of me in such a different manner), I lowered myself onto you. I meant it when I said the initial thrust is intrusive; not necessarily bad, just different, and only at first.

I'm particularly quick to accommodate you, and began to rock against you at what I'd say was a medium pace. You were content with me having control for the moment at least, maybe allowing me to continue what had happened earlier but in a different way. Solid hand caressed my sides below the rib cage, neither pushing nor pulling. An excuse to have your hands on me – not that one is needed.

I leaned forward so my chest was almost directly on yours with my forearms on the headboard so I didn't fall forward, have you slip out, smother you, or any combination of the three. The bluntness inside melted away as I fully adjusted to you, turning into something very... very nice. Something you don't realize how much you miss until you have it again. Tiny sparks igniting heat that could not be in more opposition to kissing, but just as fulfilling. Hissing in my ear as I change motion, up down up down, and always rocking my hips. "Cas, Cas, f-" and you'd bite your lips, tilt your head back enough for me to pepper you with kisses along your scratchy chin.

My name.

For some creatures, to know and speak their name is to have dominion over them. Maybe this is true for angels, too. To have you say my name during sex, anytime we have it, is almost like a call to arms. I'd do anything, kill anyone you told me to, to hear you say it like you do. It's inside me.

A few gracious strokes and your hands slid up my back, stopping once I shuddered, having reached your target. It's been something of a toy for you since your discovered the sensitivity there, while _I_ try to sleep or in passing – always while we're alone for obvious reasons. But never during sex. Taking into account my already oversensitive nerves, the additional sensation caused me to buck up against you. Fingers slid between my shoulder blades and I tensed, my entire body, and a moan erupted from the both of us. I could feel everything – your breath on my shoulder, your pulse, your body conveying the words your mouth couldn't form.

It's as if you knew. It's the only explanation I can think of; what would drive you to do so otherwise? How... absurd! Once we return home and into the privacy of our room, I would like to ask you. How could you discover something in what is essentially nothing?

You grabbed them.

You groped the air, not as if you were seeking but knew as clearly as if you saw them, and held onto the very bottom of the base because, as you said, they are rather large and your hands would not come close at all to encircling them.

Dean, I don't _get it_. Never in my lifetime have I heard something similar to this occurring, despite all of my brothers and sisters visiting Earth and those who found human mates. Even if such a thing happened during their exile, word would have reached us in Heaven and spread. Why us? Why now?

You held onto my grace and my body became rigid at once, my hands pushing at the headboard; the possibility of snapping it never entered my mind. I can't even recall what I was thinking at the moment of initial contact. My thoughts became a storm as it tried to process more than I could handle, the how, why, what, the foreign feeling of... something I can only attempt to explain. But it only raises more questions.

I'm grieved to say that for this point until climax you were drowned out in every sense: Surely you spoke to me, but I could not hear it; I couldn't tell if I rode you too aggressively. I fell into something more visceral than words can describe, not in English anyway. You, a mortal, having contact with an angel's grace. Unheard of, something that should not be. Taboo. Yes I could grab your soul as I did when I saved you, but only in a circumstance like that: a spirit shed of its earthly container, and an angel with no body to bind it. You could never lift me if roles were reversed. But this wasn't Hell. I could not harm you with my grace while it was sealed within a vessel.

Something that should have _hurt you_ did not. If humans have contact with grace, it would kill them. It's... me, the real me. The "power and righteous fury's" source, an energy that could just barely be contained. You held onto my wings like it was simply another of Jimmy's extremities.

Every nerve and synapse was set ablaze, and this time the fire would not burn. You moved just slightly, testing how far you could take it. It may have seemed insignificant to you, nothing more than a nudge, but to me the result felt like being slammed by a meteorite. Now that I've had time to reflect upon it, my reaction was humiliating, jerking against you and -I'm sorry- yowling in your ear. I've never... um, made sounds like that before. I didn't know it was possible. When one looses self-control I suppose vocals could be one of the things.

Everything appeared to be fine as you continued the pattern, short strokes that I am sure were exploratory in nature, not just for gauging my response but taking in what it felt like for you: the contours, the length, the give, hot or cool. I, meanwhile, could only thrash mindlessly against you, my arms abandoning the bed and wrapping around your neck. I'm afraid I squeezed too much and you may have even protested, but I was so beyond involved with what you were doing, both of your invasive engagements. Yes, I was still aware you were still inside me, but all movement was a nervous reaction to you touching me.

These memories are so intense they cause me to shiver and my toes to curl. I'm still stewing in my embarrassment and it's still not enough to quell the sensation from spontaneously erupting.

You later told me you reached orgasm first, long after my head cleared and the both of us could speak with some coherency. For as cacophonous as I was, my own was subdued; you laughed that I was in shock or exhausted or both. I clung to you with my head against yours and trembled only a little. Only when you took your hand off of my grace did whatever energy the contact created fizzle away, not smoothly but like grains of sands falling through an hourglass.

The questions, the uncertainty, the implications set in.

I slid off of you though still remaining on your lap and looked into your eyes with what can only be described as dread. "Dean, I..."

"You have _no _explanation for that, do you?"

No, I didn't. And the day after I can only make assumptions.

Your thumb stroked my thigh, a small gesture of reassurance. "Didn't hurt?"

No. It defined the word "opposite."

"I've been wanting to try that for a couple weeks," you admitted timidly, "when we first, um, talked about your wings. And I didn't _think_ they'd be there... Call me nuts, but I knew it."

I had no reply for that or any of the questions in my mind. One thing was certain, though: we're changing, you and I.

The rain still falls and it continues to remind me of you, damp skin and hair sometimes from a shower both inside and out. One leaves you skin smelling of a synthetic kind of clean which I don't care for, but you're soft and most times you _want_ me to touch you. I can tolerate "mountain spring" for that.

Today I held your hand in public. During the break while Sam was speaking I wrapped my fingers around yours under the diner's booth table. I could see the way your breath caught in your chest, but that was all. After the initial alarm wore off you held back, responding to Sam as if nothing had happened. I suppose Sam did know something had though he did not allude to it. I owe him.

I'm proud of you, Dean, for the progress you have made. Healing wounds I cannot, one cell at a time and on your own. But, like myself and your brother, some can never be cured, only medicated. For that, you have more friends than you realize.

"It felt like a home." That's what you said 2 days after Kevin left, something I never expected you to say and something that would have surprise Sam. You are fond of the bunker, your "super exclusive hangout," but never have you referenced to it in such a benign manner. Not only is the concept of a home unfamiliar but also perilous. This, too, could be something -familial, domestication- you lose. The risk is too great, so to admit such a thing of your own volition is very admirable.

Because we're both changing.

* * *

I started from the top and made my way down floor by floor, being led (forced to follow) by what I can only assume was a child only by height and gender-neutral clothing. It had shape, legs and individual fingers on two hands, but no definition, lacking hair and facial features. But swirling within it, like it were contained in glass, was the eternal churning of what could only be smoke, thick and milky gray. A susurrus followed us, came from within this entity of smoke, emitted from the walls – I can't say for certain. But it was so faint and distant, though the sound did not have a source.

We had no choice but to continue downward as when I turned around the path became sealed off by a wall, like it had been there all along. Nor could I pass my shepherd. I felt no enmity coming from it, but maybe it was the logic of dreams that told me to do as I was told. Not that it vocally ordered me to do anything.

Every floor had a room I must visit before progressing further down framed by a doorway you would see in most municipal buildings. The rooms themselves were not limited by space and physics (again, dream logic), ranging from a cubbyhole to an outdoor setting with no walls or roof to contain it. No matter where I emerged to, when my visit was deemed over the door would swing open and I would be beckoned to journey further down.

The content of the rooms varied as well, but everything was recognizable no matter how altered they were. No fleshly beings were in the dream and I could identify them all the same. We were statues, or mannequins to be precise, in what was your room and at the same time wasn't. It was far too large, the door on the wrong side of the room; the floor was tiled an opaque black and white that cracked like ice as I walked on it. White light instead of yellow. Monstrosities of black wire and pikes and pieces from suits of armor embedded in the walls, occasionally a glove would twitch or a visor grating the metal as it slid up, or falling off completely. The bed was on the wall with our posed bodies in it, the nightstand broken in half on its side next to it and was acted as if it were normal. The katanas had been used, slugs and shells littered the floor with their guns close by.

I spent what felt like an eon in the smallest space. I spoke with Meg there. We had... much to talk about. Words I cannot get out of my head. Well, I _am_ the one who thought of the words in the first place. She was as dry and sarcastic as one would expect. The light fixture over my head shorted out continuously, the flickering and _tink _sound pushing me to retreat.

"Just zap it with your superpowers and get comfy because word is you're stuck with me until the CO designates the time for you to leave your cell."

What followed was personal, something I don't think you would be at ease overhearing. Not that the only topic of discussion was you and I.

Another room saw a street lined with garbage cans after a rain. One further from me stood out by the litter surrounding it. As I came closer I saw it for what it was: soggy little rag dolls that could fit in my hand, some on the ground, others with limbs caught between the side and the lid. I didn't need to see the small nubs on their backs to know they were imitations of my kin. They looked just as pitiful as you would imagine them to be. I was only released once my stress level with sufficient enough for the being of smoke's liking.

We came to the bottom floor, a total of nine. Eight doors, eight places that were better left forgotten, countless voices and mistakes. The final door was at the bottom of the stairwell straight in front of us. It stepped aside, not proceeding any further, and looked expectantly up at me though I cannot say how I knew for certain. It smelled wrong. The air felt wrong – thick, oppressive, stinging on my skin. All known to me; I could recall how ancient it was but not anything else.

I could not stop the "No" from spilling forth. Whatever was beyond this final door was something best forgotten and ignored. No good would come from me passing through it. I conveyed this, but the smoke gestured to the solid mass behind me. _The way out is through_.

Then I don't want to leave. You can't force me to continue. I will stand here until I wake up... Should be any moment now.

The door opened with no sound or source, and after a moment of silence I could hear murmurs coming from the dark end of this final room. I willed for my angel blade, for security as that's all I would get from it, but I could not even have that in this dream. They grew louder, close enough to make out clips of words and different languages spoken by many: Latin, Enochian, Italian, English, Sumerian, Lydian – languages both extinct and present, too many to list, all being hummed and increasing in volume. Barking laughs would break the drone, ones that pierced your ears like a needle and set your teeth on edge.

_Why are you having prophetic dreams, Castiel?_

That voice I did know, distinct from the ones ahead of me and separate of them. From the walls, in my head, I don't know where. I had not heard it for millennia, to think of it so suddenly and absurdly...

They had reached mythological status in Heaven. Like most myths and legends, descriptions of the hero, monsters and villains vary by region and who you ask. Your Boogeyman for example is found throughout the world, but none are alike. Like the children we tend to be, the same happened with us. Lucifer's fallen were the subject of much gossip for many, many years after the fact. Why did they do it? What do they look like now? Are they even alive, if whatever happened to them could be called living? Since our questions had no answers (they never visited Earth to our understanding), we contrived them and filled in the gaps, sculpting them into the most vile creatures imaginable in both appearance and spirit. They look like us still, or they resembled humans now; Lucifer castrated them, sapping them of all will, the mindless, traitorous cretins deserved it. The spoiled brat was a charismatic one and simply broke the weak. Maybe it was a good thing.

Tall, too tall for the door frame. 13 feet is a rough estimate. Purple and black blinking in and out of existence like it was caught between this world and another. Its bulk was too wide for the entryway; hunkering down was still not enough. Grabbing the walls for leverage, the large and slender hands were topped with claws or nails or simply fingers that punctured it. Cracks formed in the cement and fanned outward without a sound. Its head was bent toward me so I could not make out any details, but there was nothing humanoid about it, that I do know. Much longer... Protrusions at the top.

The child-thing tugged at my sleeve and once it had my attention, slipped a small stone or trinket into my hand.

You know what it is, Dean.

Prophetic dreams are for the prophets: what happened was only a dream, which I can have occasionally. But why them? They abandoned our father and their family, it was their decision to do so, and once cast out I did not regard them at all, other than unavoidable rumors from those within my garrison and otherwise.

And the voice. No, I could explain that. My brothers and sisters have been mentioning its source for weeks. That was all.

Why the necklace? Why now? I woke up before I could find any answers. I could have sworn I was shaken awake if it were not for you sleeping soundly beside me. Most of your body was hanging off the bed. I don't understand how you _could_ be sleeping soundly.

At least someone's unconscious visions seemed plain enough. I pulled you closer to me hoping the inch was enough to prevent you from falling and wondered if you would give me permission to join in them again someday.


End file.
